I fucking hate loglines.
Okay, let me walk that back a little. Loglines are an important part of this thing we call screenwriting for a vast amount of reasons, most of which are obvious if you’re the kind of person who’s bothering to read a blog post on a script competition site. They tell us what the script’s about, they offer some insight into the writer, and they’re quite consequential. (There’s also an extremely helpful article by Fred Pelzer on the Screenwriters Network blog that outlines their significance on creative, business, and practical levels that I highly recommend you read.)
It’s not that I hate loglines in and of themselves. Everything Fred says in his article is correct, and this rant serves no purpose other than camaraderie and self-indulgence. Moreover, I was a reader for the 2021 Killer Shorts contest, and I’ve read scripts at two professional Hollywood companies. It’s nice to know what you’re about to read, and it makes my life easier when I can take your logline, change a word or two, and write it in my coverage instead of having to think of my own!
What I really hate is the rift between what loglines are supposed to accomplish and how they’re actually used in the moment. They’re supposed to inform the reader on what they’re about to read. In reality, you’re handing your reader a bludgeon.
I hope this isn’t a controversial opinion, but screenwriting is not a prose art. Of course, a great screenwriter can balance the beauty of language with clear communication and visual flair. But at the end of the day, you’re picking your words based on their utility, not their artistic value. We’re a medium of verbs, not adjectives.
Yet when I read the loglines for last year’s Killer Shorts entries, or whenever I read a logline for work or I’m reading any of the loglines from the big screenwriting lists, my mind goes to prose mode. I’m looking at the concept. But I’m also looking at syntax, aesthetics, pet peeves, and any number of aspects that have, at best, a tenuous connection with the actual craft of screenwriting or filmmaking. I feel bad. Then I remember any number of articles or comments or tweets that eviscerate loglines for the same reasons. Then I feel worse.
If there’s one thing I love about screenwriting discourse, it’s the impulse to create arbitrary barriers for ourselves. Especially when said impulses reward repetitive hackery and funnel out anyone who wants to create something that doesn’t adhere to easy-to-summarize Campbellian Hero structure. Shunting creativity is, after all, perfectly healthy behavior for a creative medium. (I’m a writer myself. My scripts, for the record, are extremely Campbellian. This is not a judgment on Campbell. I wouldn’t dare!)
There are a few other points I could make. (Seriously, the comments sections of various screenwriting websites and subreddits whenever a new logline drops is the most embarrassing bullshit on the planet.) But none of them matter.
The point is this: Loglines make it too easy for readers to dismiss you and your script for reasons that are, frankly, unfair. The ability to write a great screenplay and the ability to compose a logline are two separate skills. Yet you’re being judged for your ability to do the former by your ability to do the latter.
This is also a convenient opinion for me to hold because I’m dog shit at writing loglines.
So when it comes to screenwriting competitions (like Killer Shorts!) how can we give ourselves a fighting chance? Well, that’s a complicated question. But based on last year’s loglines, and a lot of loglines I’ve seen in general for that matter, three ideas come to mind!
Do Not Write Paragraph Length Loglines
I know I just wrote a pointlessly long introduction about the folly of judging scripts based on loglines. But if you write lengthy summaries or paragraph-long tomes when you’re supposed to write a logline, you’re telling your reader that you’re an amateur right off the bat.
I say all this not to make fun or to be insulting. I wrote that previously stated indulgent intro to show a little solidarity with my fellow writers. But there are some things you simply cannot do, and overly lengthy loglines are one of them.
Let’s get the most condescending point out of the way first. Paragraph long descriptions or full summaries are, by definition, not loglines. These are, well… paragraph-long descriptions and full summaries. Loglines are one or two sentences that inform us of what your script is about, but they’re not outlines, blueprints, or synopses. They’re gists. A sentence on the idea of what your script is about and where it’s going that you write to spare yourself and your reader the inconvenience of having to tell them in person. They are, of course, more complicated than that. (Once again, I refer you to Fred Pelzer’s article.) But that’s about it.
That said, let’s pretend for a moment that loglines aren’t a thing. That instead of writing a logline, you write a lengthy summary and this is commonly accepted behavior. The problem with going into too much detail is that it feels like I’ve read your script before I’ve actually read your script. As a result, when it comes time to finally read your work, I’m bored on page one because I already know everything that’s going to happen.
Even if you hold back some details, most readers can easily tell where you’re going if you give them enough information. Or at least you should go in assuming they can. So keep it simple. Yes, one sentence is annoying. Yes, there may be a point you can make about the attention span of those who work on screenwriting contests. (Or Hollywood in general, for that matter.) However, this is one of those cases where the annoying rule is a beneficial one. After all, nobody likes a blowhard.
Do Not Write Cute Loglines That Are Deliberately Withholding
This may seem like a weird one to point out, but I saw these kinds of loglines an awful lot. In fact, I probably saw these more than I saw the overly long summaries. This issue stood out to me because this is the first time I’ve ever read scripts for a competition, and I’ve never seen this problem before. (Also, while this article’s primarily about loglines for contests, do not do the following under any other circumstances either!)
So what do I mean by “cute loglines that are deliberately withholding?” Generally speaking, it’s when the writer provides their concept in a pithy way that communicates what the script is about through sarcasm or implication rather than the actual giving of information. The purpose of a lot of these loglines is to communicate to the reader that what they’re about to read shouldn’t be taken too seriously. However, about a third of these were written for scripts that didn’t show any signs of self-awareness, or the tone of the loglines runs contrary to the tone of the script. Not enough to distract from the goal that most of these loglines are trying to accomplish, but just enough to sow doubt.
Let’s be even more specific. By “cute loglines” I’m talking about stuff like this. (Note: These are not real examples):
- “A couple leave the city to go on a weekend retreat in the mountains. What could possibly go wrong?“
- “A single dad takes his daughter on a quiet uneventful trip to an amusement park.”
- “A vlogger decides it’s a good idea to visit a famous haunted house.”
(Second note: I saw the “What could possibly go wrong?” thing a lot. Please stop.)
So what’s the issue here?
The first is a lack of information. These loglines give us a general location and an implication that horror is going to happen. (Or worse, these writers let the fact that they’re entering a horror competition be the implication in and of itself.) However, unless the location is one we haven’t seen before, these aren’t the kinds of details that will get a reader excited. A reader wants to know what the story’s about, not an implication of what the story’s about.
Moreover, and this may be an issue of personal taste, there’s also the divide between what you’re trying to communicate and what you’re actually communicating.
Maybe the intent is to convey a sense of playfulness. Maybe it isn’t. (Or it’s a third thing we’ll get into in the next section.) Either way, if you turn in a logline like the ones above, you’re raising expectations. Let’s take that first one. If sarcasm is the vehicle by which you’re promising something to go wrong, by the very nature of said sarcasm, I’m now expecting either the wrongest possible thing to happen or I’m expecting everything to go wrong in a way that I’ve never seen before. So if you fail to deliver on either front, at best, you’ve proven yourself insincere, and at worst, a little smug as well.
Not the kind of writer or script a reader’s going to want to advance.
Do Find a Middle Ground
Not long ago, I wrote an article for this very blog about the 164 scripts I read for last year’s competition. I ended that article by fawning over a then anonymous script for its sense of expression and its worldview.
That script, I can now say, was Ride or Die by Lily Citrin. A script that made it all the way to the finals! (For the sake of any perceived bias, I had no involvement in what scripts did or did not advance. I was just a reader. Also, of the ten finalists, I read four of them, including eventual winner This Hunger and runner-up Copy Cat, and they were all fantastic!) The logline of Ride or Die is as follows:
“When her best friend commits an unspeakable act, Adele must do what white women do best – validate her and absolve her of all responsibility.”
I love this logline.
First and foremost, obviously, my taste is a factor here. As a lover of dark acidic comedy (I’m a big The Thick of It fan, for example), I love the mean spirit on display. But moreover, I love that it presents a specific perspective. One gets the sense that only this writer could’ve written this logline because of who they are and how they see the world.
As I said, there’s a third reason I think people go for the short sarcastic ones. They attempt to communicate to the reader a sense of voice. A signal that they’re not like other writers who pen more traditional loglines. Shorthand that you should expect something different.
To a certain extent, this is an effective tactic. However, it’s not just about communicating a sense of voice, but what you communicate with it. In most of the cases I saw, the writers used their voice to communicate what the script and the story might be. In Ride or Die’s logline, it communicates what the script actually is: A takedown of white entitlement and a critique of social media empowerment.
On top of all this, this logline communicates just as much information as the lengthy loglines. It just does so in fewer words. Based on what we’ve been provided, we don’t know what this best friend did, but we know that we’ll be reading a story about some sort of cover-up (or at least a passing of responsibility), and the race and probable socio-economic class of our lead characters.
We know everything we need to know, and the questions we’re left to ponder are actually fun to ask. What did the best friend do? Why is Adele so loyal? How is Adele going to weaponize her standing in society? How is this script going to make us feel about it?
Too much info and the reader has no room to breathe. Too little, and the reader is left annoyed. Maybe we can say then that the perfect logline rests in the middle, and this middle is also where we inject ourselves.
Or maybe we should phrase it another way. You’re not just trying to sell what your script is about, but also what you’re trying to say with it.
Conclusion
What’s the difference between reading a script for fun and reading one as a professional? Primarily, it’s one of freedom. If you’re reading for fun, then you’re choosing what to read. If you’re reading for work, you read what you’re given.
In other words, if you’re reading professionally, it doesn’t really matter what the logline says. You have to read that script regardless.
One may conclude that this would lead anyone who’s ever read at a company or anything like that to be the harshest critics of loglines. But for me, it had the opposite effect. I know that if your script makes it to a company, someone will have to read it. If they like it, they’ll write their own logline and recommend it to whoever’s next on the ladder. The logline itself has little bearing on the process.
Thus, when I see a debate break out about a logline, I think, “What the fuck are we doing here?” (Though I will admit that when I see the agent/manager written loglines on The Blacklist, I have myself a giggle or two.) This is also why it’s easy for me to have the dismissive attitude I have about loglines.
That said, just because I’ve been compromised doesn’t mean you should be. The scenario I’ve described is just one specific area of screenwriting and one avenue of success. Loglines matter less in the pockets in which I’ve dwelled, but they matter a whole lot more elsewhere. Mainly, competitions, inquiries, and many other arenas.
So regardless of my attitude, loglines matter. It may be yet another turd on top of the endless pile of shit writers have to eat. But eat it we must. So we might as well suck it up and get better at them.
